The Whether
*you will like, love or hate this poem
it will be written, needs writing,
asks no permission from the author,
gives no quarter, it is the*
whether of either or,
*for ‘tis not in our hands, not in this domain,
for it’s ripped from my elemental being,
like it or not, was took and taken!*
*Even I, am without choice, this one of
singular changing moments in our lives,*
when she speaks and:
*the happenstance dominates, the errant word,
bullet kills, grimace or grin is its very own revel-nation,
when where truth smashes,
drips and a froze-moment is preserved without
artifice, mnemonic or devise, for it is both perma-
burnt and burnished with ochres, browning yellows,
when you spoke plainly words that sundered irretrievably,
un-remediable, destructing
my first first principle,
a mathematical construct of
conceptional constantcy*
“I can no longer love you.”
Jul 10, 2023
Jul 10, 2023 at 10:10 PM UTC
The Whether
*you will like, love or hate this poem
it will be written, needs writing,
asks no permission from the author,
gives no quarter, it is the*
whether of either or,
*for ‘tis not in our hands, not in this domain,
for it’s ripped from my elemental being,
like it or not, was took and taken!*
*Even I, am without choice, this one of
singular changing moments in our lives,*
when she speaks and:
*the happenstance dominates, the errant word,
bullet kills, grimace or grin is its very own revel-nation,
when where truth smashes,
drips and a froze-moment is preserved without
artifice, mnemonic or devise, for it is both perma-
burnt and burnished with ochres, browning yellows,
when you spoke plainly words that sundered irretrievably,
un-remediable, destructing
my first first principle,
a mathematical construct of
conceptional constantcy*
“I can no longer love you.”
